


Ghillie Callum

by Literarion



Series: OLHTS Crack [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Crack, Dancing, Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Gen, OLHTS made me do it, Scotland, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion
Summary: Prompt: Interesting uses for a flaming swordCrowley isn't the only one who's got experience with blistered feet.
Series: OLHTS Crack [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742359
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	Ghillie Callum

**Inverness, April 1745**

There's War in Scotland. Currently she's enjoying a high time in Inverness, egging on the Jacobites. She's always enjoyed immersing herself in the war customs of whichever culture she currently deconstructed, and Scotland is no different. These kilted idealists have some very odd ideas of good omens, but at least they've got Whisky to go with it. It's a good night, not too cold, and the troops have just discovered a leftover barrel of ale in a deserted cellar that mixes well with the remaining liquor. There's music, and there's alcohol, and for whatever reason, the men are euphoric.

In this turmoil, who came up with the idea of a round of Ghillie Callum was anybody's guess. It was probably that downstairs agent who hung about the edge of the congregation though, sneering at all the false hope and unnecessary injuries it caused. Some of the men would not be ready to join the battle with those cuts. What a shame. But, never mind - there's another Whisky. She raises her jug in a silent toasts to the only other occult being, who nods and sneers again in recognition.

Suddenly there's a bump to her back, shoving her sideways, as a bulk of the men clear a vaguely circular space. She blinks, ever so slightly tipsy, and finds herself facing a large Scot, in full battle dress, laying out two swords on the ground and dancing. From somewhere there's the beat of a bodhrán, slow at first, and the red-headed giant gently taps his feet over and across the two blades. As the beat picks up, so do his steps, until his feet seem to fly over the blades, and she cannot help but be impressed that he manages not to cut himself. Her foot taps along to the beat. Her hand twitches over the sword at her own hip.

And there is more Whisky. Certainly this cannot be a normal supply, the supplies have been running low for weeks, and she has a vague suspicion that this is, again, down to that blasted downstairs agent. Where's he up to? She thinks she sees his dark kilt - an unusual tartan, black on deeper black - swing behind a group at the edge of the small gathering. In close proximity to the source of the Whisky. Well then. She drinks. Her foot taps faster as she watches the next dancer. He's nowhere near as good as the first, and only a few minutes in steps onto his blade, stumbles, and is carried off with a bad gash to his ankle.

She keeps taps her foot, dazzled by the volume of the music, the cheering of the men, the starry sky above. More Whisky. The third dancer fares only slightly better, which may or may not be related to the bodhrán player losing his rhythm. But it does not matter, because there will be enough men left to fight a losing battle, and once this is over, she can already sense the makings of another fine war over on the continent. Scotland has fought bravely, but they won't fight much longer; they deserve some fun before the end.

The cheering gets louder, the music more irregular, the dancing wilder, and still there is more Whisky. Her feet tap, and she swings along, watching the next dancer's feet fly across his blades. When he stops, unhurt to the cheers of his companions, someone - was that the dark kilt she saw from the corner of her eye? - bumps into her back, shoving her into dancers' space. She's encircled by a loud cheer and clapping, and the drum picks up yet again. Why ever not, she thinks, and before she's really made up her mind, she's already pulled out her sword and placed it on the ground. Nobody seems to wonder why one of the swords is on fire. From somewhere, a second sword is supplied, forming the obligatory cross, as she downs the remainder of her Whisky.

She smiles at the crowd, proud of the chaos and the fighting that will soon ensue - and taps her feet slowly across the blades. She closes her eyes, her thoughts drifting off with the beat of the bodhrán, her feet moving of their own volition. Faster and faster she goes, step, left, right, across, step, step, step. She seems to fly, and she rejoices at the cheers as she stops and bows deep.

The cheers grow louder. She smiles.

The cheers sound slightly off, but her Whisky-hazed mind puts that down to her impressive performance. Something tickles her left ankle.

The cheers turn into distinct shouts. Her calf itches.

She opens her eyes as something hits her, and she falls over haphazardly. There's cloth over her face, and she tries to throw it off, somewhat indignant. This is not the celebration she was after. What on earth are these guys up to?

He leg burns. A sharp pain cuts through her alcohol-induced trance and brings her back to full consciousness. The shouts become clearer, and turn into 'Fire! Fire!' Her leg burns. She gives out a not very dignified squeak as she's womanhandled and rolled about on the ground, until at last the urgent pain subsides, and is replaced by a dull ache. The cloth over her head is pulled back, and one of the red-headed barbarians looks at her worried. "You alrrrright, lass?"

She sneers, grips his shoulders and shoves him down as she gets up. She realises just how bad an idea that was when she puts weight on her left foot - or tries to - and it gives out under her.

The man scrambles back to his feet, picks her up, and carries her off to the public house around the corner.

She sighs, annoyed. The battle will have to wait a while longer until her foot has healed up.


End file.
